The seat change was supposed to be temporary.
Just a few days. Maybe a week.
But no one moved them back.
And in that time, something subtle began to shift.
Arpan and Samruddhi became... familiar. Not in the way of loud conversations or lunch breaks shared. But in the way their elbows brushed when they reached for their pens. In the way they'd occasionally whisper answers to each other during quizzes. In the quiet, gentle glances that lingered a second too long.
He learned the way she chewed her pen cap when she was thinking. She learned that he always wrote his first drafts in pencil, never ink—like he was scared of making something permanent.
They hadn't exchanged numbers.
They hadn't followed each other on Instagram.
And yet, there was a rhythm growing between them—one only they could hear.
It was on the fifth day, after school, when Arpan found her outside the classroom alone. Rain was coming down in sheets, loud against the metal roof, and her umbrella had broken in the morning. Most students had already left, huddled under umbrellas or rushing to the waiting school vans.
Samruddhi stood quietly beneath the awning, her arms crossed, drenched at the edges.
Arpan paused at the door, unsure. He felt the storm inside him match the one outside.
"Hey," he said, stepping forward, holding out his half-bent umbrella. "Come with me. We'll share."
She looked at him for a moment. That look. Like she was about to say no, but then changed her mind halfway.
"Okay," she said softly.
They walked side by side, squeezed under the tiny umbrella, their shoulders pressed too close. Her hand brushed against his once. Neither of them pulled away.
The road was quiet, just the rain and the sound of their footsteps on the wet concrete.
"I used to hate the rain," she murmured. "It felt... heavy. Like it reminded me of everything I didn't want to feel."
Arpan glanced at her. "And now?"
She looked up, blinking rain from her lashes. "Now I think it hides tears really well."
He didn't know what to say to that. But in that moment, he realized something: Samruddhi wasn't made of perfection. She was made of poetry stitched over scars.
He wanted to ask. About the scar on her wrist. About what she meant. About what made her eyes look like they were always holding back something.
But he didn't. He just nodded, and they kept walking.
—
The next morning, the seat was empty.
Samruddhi didn't come to school.
Not that day. Not the day after.
No message. No explanation.
By the third day, Arpan had memorized the curve of the empty desk beside him. It felt colder, quieter. The rhythm was gone.
During lunch, he asked Rohini Ma'am. "Is Samruddhi okay?"
Her expression shifted—too quickly.
"She's taken a few days off," she said, then added, "Family matters."
But her voice was too rehearsed. Too careful.
Arpan didn't know what to do with the ache building in his chest.
He walked home alone that day. The sky was clear. Too clear. Like the world had forgotten how to feel heavy.
When he got home, something pulled him to his sketchbook.
He opened it.
And found something tucked inside.
A folded piece of paper.
His name written in blue ink.
His hands shook as he opened it.
Inside was a note—no greeting, no farewell.
Just four words written in her handwriting.
"I wish I could."
That was it.
No context. No explanation.
No answers.
Just heartbreak, folded neatly into a sentence.
And in that moment, Arpan realized—
She hadn't just left her seat.
She had left him.